I read Castaneda throughout my in between years, in my teen years where I woke to my Na’will and dreamt that juan-carlos floated through all the mundane-bits that we do … but he assisted me too, with death-awareness pattern-recognition; these trails left behind by Natures foxy-moves, ’til you could read its language, its omen-nomenclature, and not need to know what it meant, then take another breath while brother-death counted what was left…

artists are often autogamous, like jelly-fish, especially when they’re disturbing meaning in a rhythmic pulsation, exciting to fluorescence a deeply subtext’d verse; but don’t mistake their stinging strophe for arrogance, that’s just fierce presence, moved by waves of astonishment, cascading through their nervous and vascular system; they’re spontaneously overflowed ( sea through ) and while reaching with their iridescent tentacle, they’ll simply, elegantly, fluoresce a gleam in your eyes…

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What is ‘meaning’?¿

Poems are often a ɹoɹɹıɯ:mirror and they’re also reflections of the urge-to-merge — a eunoia-euphoria expressed in longing waves, swelling into words that’re intertextual-fugues.

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt; that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!

What is meaning?¿we are the meaning-makers.

Sometimes the Poem is simply a prayer and sometimes the prayer, the plaint, is a diminutive echo of our deep calling to deep, from our slippery-sloped separation anxiety — sometimes its this ancient-ache from being separated by such large chasms of time-and-space matters, and sometimes, feeling this is all one can do, and this ‘this’ becomes a catabasis romance, and yet a duality dirge too, an elegy of woe, and a place of exceptional Peace, where the quantum frequencies of bliss are released…


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rainy days always make me sad…

On the far side of this torrentially rainy afternoon, my chest is heaving with a heart full of anxious discordant speech — I’m in afib — I feel the distant planets warp and weft in space, and this spinning world spinning out of place, while Solar events stimulate our gyrating geomagnetic sphere, I’m here, catching my breath and spinning too.
I feel these electric triggers of a planet gone askew — sometimes all I can do is let the frenzy of cacophony play out — while I bear down and lay for awhile on the ground.
It feels like hell though — having experienced abiding in those long rhythms of natural Peace, which I remember with a grin, it’s as if now I’m agitated in the fires of discordant Sin.
Nevertheless, I digress, I beseech, I reel, and then I faint from the pain in my chest; a pain with no upper limit, no crescendo, just a rising fugue with no hope of return — I can’t remember anything at all, then. Now.
I’m riding it out, using a few tricks, where ignorance is my friend and not knowing my special talent — I do this while writing, scratching out words, with these many strokes of my ink spilling pens — sitting in my studio, leaning over my desk, convalescing and trying not to think of what the future may bring.
However, and notwithstanding this constant reeling I feel, while falling down I yet wonder and look for a spot to drop — I hear a distant thunder, my eyes see sparkles like crystal dew, flashing shards of reflection, in this my room with a view…
All my blood is pooling, in my misfit heart, spiralling around and around, and I cannot feel my heart beat, my heart beat, where is the beat in my fuK’ng heart?
Anyways, I keep on and push the discomfort away, as if I have some say — my cardiologists give me drugs to escape the pain, the anguish, and espouse their killer strategy of murdering that part of my heart that reacts to my vagus nerves’ mysterious entreaties and tribulations — with its rapid rise and sudden fall, with each opposite beat cancelling the flow, with each beat lost to the veto of this foreign request, my heart yet persists, as if trying to make me whole.
Why would an errant signal from my vagus nerve make me feel like the sky is falling, beseech me to run and hide? Is this the boy who cried wolf? It’s as if my vagus nerve knows more than I, as if the world has lost its way, gone crazy, gone far astray, like a sheep in wolf’s clothing.
I cannot feel my pulse — I have no pulse — only a slushing surge — no beat, no rhythm, no tempo — like my poems — just noise. I listen to music now, half hoping that these natural rhythms, these jazz beats and blissful rising cannons can assuage the wild beast writhing within me.
My mind is calm, relaxed, measured; I’m not stressed — yet, by these egregious body signals, by my heart writhing wretched and disrupted, it tells me I’m in terror, waiting to die a horrible death, choking, trying to catch my breath.
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irreverent rhythm and rational arrhythmia

Ezra Pound averred that, “Rhythm is form cut into TIME, as a design is determined by SPACE.” or the temporal, therefore rhythmic, distribution of the elements of language — the texture of expectations, satisfactions, disappointments, surprisals, which the sequence of syllables brings about — the physiological link of rhythm to heart and lungs brings the reader into the Poem with that viscereality —


visceReality in the poem — vortex prayers ‘n fractal wishes, on the edge of an ancient-ache in time ‘n space matters — I’ve always loved the flowing stream through rock ‘n root making many whirl’ds — those vortices apparently whirl down to the atomic level thus stream-cleaning water of biological hazards — sometimes I write from the rhythm not knowing the words but using a sort of shorthand where phrasings are place-holders of syllables — as pointed out this often ends up illiterythmically inspired —


nevertheless, motion is what creates something from nothing; as Einstein mused when considering the beginning of the Multiverse, ” something moved ” — as such words are as ‘dynamos’ of rhythmic punctuation when musically driven by inspiration — this is why ‘thought’ is conjectured to be a sympathetic-motion in the brain from the confluence of sensing Nature all over again — the Poet writes from that serendiptous-connection having mastered the word-image-rhythms can therefore incite the emotives/feelings/thoughts in a reader where a synergy of the relationship of observer/observed becomes tesselated interactively


— I throw a rock in the stream and watch the ripples fill the unbounded cavity of your brain, where these ripples ripple all over again — so, she writes her insights with a lyrical pen that babbles like a brook of words that meander down the page while unfettered glistening ‘fish’ jump from line to line seeking the source of their urgent drive home — thus does poetry roam…

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Ponderings and merCurious illuMentations on Depression and Art

this creeping flesh
shall fade and fall as dust
from dust so made;
though carries in itself
the bloom of flower
the reach of tree,
the words a lover
once said
to me


I have seen many of my friends fall to the so called illness of depression. Many Artists of brilliance allured to the relinquishment of darkness. The once formidable and brilliant lost in the grey haze of nothingness. Why is there this flaw in us? I’ve looked into the dopamine and serotonin theories of creativity and brilliance. Many studies indicate a lack of these neurotransmitters or their inhibition as the crux of this Psychological flaw. There are practical Alchemies that have the affect of countering this plight, such as the Aromatherapy of Roses, the uplifting thrill of chocolate and the inspiration of imbibing a wholesome wine; all claiming to open brain centres and cascade the bliss’s of dopamine’s and serotonin pleasures. The mysteries of passion and the Tantra of realization go a long way to vilify the congresses of these neurotransmitters. Why even the Raptures of Enlightenment itself reflects this Brain Chemistry as a culmination of these chemically based biological bliss’s.

Nevertheless, it has come to my attention of late that darkness is necessary to light and I am confident that behind this is the key to further realizations. The Psychology of Alchemy always alludes to darkness as a precipitate to the process of turning lead into Gold. An allusion to our Brain Chemistry perhaps. That in the darkness of night, in those tortuous anguishes of solitude, there is a fermenting, a decaying of the unincorporated Self to that which is newly born. We become as an Egg. A death from whence comes a life; you must die before you die to rise in Light!

From the vestigial decay of our discarded and detached parts of our Psyche, from the retreat from outer life to the naked Soul searching within, there comes a breakthrough! These many separate parts of ourselves have somehow mutated into something newly Born. From the decay more biological Alchemies have transmuted into the needful neurotransmitters of dopamine and serotonin into the Light.

We all need to rest and recuperate and gather ourselves anew in caves wrapped in lament and cloaked in anguish and dive deep into that unknown to become who we are to become … but we spend too much time surviving out of tune with the Natural rhythms of integration and holistic reintegrations which can raise us into the Light body.
What if the darkness is my friend and not my enemy? What if the darkness is our need to go within instead of chasing glimmers and reflections outside of ourselves feeling incomplete and without? What if we just need to go within and surrender into our great void of not knowing to create ourselves anew, to be reborn from this darkness into light. What if the vast Darkness of Space is also the Mother of all of our Gods?

— the Heart is the basis for the quintessential transfiguration. The allusions of Alchemy hold many verities for those with eyes to see. This piece on depression is a whirlwind of views and ideas on the Darkness that invents the Light. In the Raga Yoga tradition they have demarcated 4 phases when moving through each one of the 33 Rings of Splendour of Sanskrit lineage. Upon entering one of the points is an elation, a bliss they call it which can last moments, days or years depending upon the Yogi. Ecstasy. After which there are two phases of depression. The agonizing phase which carries the anguishes and emergence of past painful impressions and the falling darknesses, the pit of despair. Then there is the dust and ashes phase which is the big grey nothing! The fog of emptiness. Either of these phases will have their alloted time. Then there is the breakthrough phase where one is vibrationally enraptured and the work continues to the next ring of splendour.

These are Maps and not the Territories. My views are from observation and like the Quantum Field Theory, the observer is always intimately connected to the experiment thus changing it. Which means that each of our experiences will vary.

The plot point of this piece is that the Darknesses is a relevant phase and you must find support for this phase shift in consciousness as the well may be infinitely deep.
The devil is in the details of your own wiring; merCurious lamentations in the Cathedral of satans synecdoche-bag of slippery tricks that is your mind.

However, these are theories born of Art and not advice in any way —

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?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿

an ?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿ is here –> <– my Literary Comic

What is an ?¿ intertextual-fugue ?¿

When we were children curious and free, we’d learn by mimicking what we see; sometimes it was frustrating and we’d jump and scream ’til we finally figured out what it really did mean; so maybe the planet and its people too, are in a cognitive-dissonance and just don’t know what to do; ’til they do, when they become heart-centred again, that’ll be the day for celebration then…

ComiX are ephemeral and topical, however, what comes around, goes around — we humans are on the brink of falling-fatal to a heartless machine, doing our ‘duty’ as an ordinary-drone has-been — or we can be rising-rapture’d in an organic-mutation within a few natural generations – then we’d speak in light’s language of shadow sculpting time, moving to a music which only the heart can hear, simply-sublime, risen from the slime, dancing without any fear.

So the point-of-view is the field of possibility. What would ‘objective’ Art look like? — ?¿Art-officially; it seems to me that there are two forms of Art. Objective Art and Subjective Art. Subjective Art comes in 3 flavours, generally, i.e., Intellectual, Emotional, and Physico/Instinctual. A quick example of each would be Picasso’s Instinctual works, the Expressionists emotive works, and the Intellectual forms of the so called minimalist Post-Modern Art. Of course there are various blending of these ‘subjective-types’ which speaks to each of us on the level of our personal character, our relative perspectives and, to paraphrase Nietzche, all of our bad-education; hence the like/dislike quality of subjective art works.

With Objective art, like the Gothic Cathedrals of old, the Pyramids, and music such as Beethoven’s 5th Symphony or Mozart’s 40th, 41st and 42nd symphonies, each and every one has a similar experience. Lifting us up, out of our personal time/space habit patterns; lifting us in awe to the greater nature of life, like wings of wonder flying through the vast cloud-of-unknowing that is this sentimental-reality. So it is that Nature reflected in Art, seems to move us beyond our tunnel-vision, while the subjective forms tend to chain us to our comfortable habits of seeing and hearing, or that they provide us a temporary diversion from our methodically-inauthentic machinations at best.

Poetry (and I agree that ComiX are a form of Poetic representation) often reflects these ‘small’ miracles in our everyday struggle. Like most Art, it is subjective and produces few Saints. Art as a Language can speak to us within but without any reason, and often sings of a Love that cannot be named, in a music that only the Heart can hear. However, it is like having a ‘Myth’ which is like having a ‘Map!’ The Artist can share these ‘stories’ of her ‘Map Quest’, her experiences, and somehow in the sharing, we the readers and perhaps the Artist herself, are renewed! Nevertheless, ?’knowing’ is like these Maps, but it’s really not the Territory, that cloud-of-unknowing we’re presently ‘wondering’ through…

In summary, tl:dr, ‘we don’t see things as they are, we see them as we are, and if we change the way we look at things, the things we look at change’ — and that’s what these Poets of possibility arouse in their Art. It’s why I read Poetry and Comix; or as Novalis averred, “We read Poetry (or ComiX) to heal the wounds that reason makes.”


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in a looking-glass that sees both ways

poems are a ɹoɹɹıɯ:mirror, a yes-I-can with crayons the colour of Tachyons rushing out of whirl’ds where past-meets-future, reaching for-words yet going back-words for some more

they make many reflections like a ripple, and yet you’re at zero-point too, from where the puddle tessellates to a past in the future you and you reflect it back-words and for-words for some more, ’til it reverberates just there, now and here, like an invertendo-innuendo that’s an in-your-face ɹoɹɹıɯ:mirror…

a mirror-Kah rackles with the spirit of the times — hmmmirror-reciprocate, and all that is recorded is written everywhere for anyone to see, and that’d be like a hit-list for revolutionary insurgencies and thus a powerful corollary of possible collapse scenarios concerning this empire, as the top one-percent are exacerbated into feeding the roots of alien alternative cycles … nonetheless, ‘I see you, you see me’ and maybe together we’re spied-upon in an irony of what it’s like not to be truely free, but carry-on in a more human invertendo-innuendo, in a more momento-mori story, and anywayZ mirroring each other more merrily…

another cycle of the Sun, rollin’ ’round the earth ‘yer on, then in cycles turned your way, yes, another day where cycles in the Sun are glimmerings dancing upon the Sea, making many reflections, and sympathetic tessellations vibrate in our oceanik-brain, where these orbits perigee, where we learn the lessons of leaving behind and faltering forward, where we would-if-I-could be the king who would be a man riding these cycles of the Sun by the Sea, going on this way, over and over again, mirrorly …

and we’d become these just-in-time poet-ninJa assassins, recycling those one-percenters who wannabe’ left alone with all of the crayons, reflecting the creme-de-la-creme in our extra hot latte, and with every word we’d missed the mark with, we’d feed the roots of further cycles than ever they bloomed before …SplashofColor

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?¿ an eunoia-euphoria

thank-you Poets for the many reflections and for the big-hearted yawp of freedom to be whom you want to be, and nonetheless with the Tuum-Est in-it; thank-you for sharing your wrought-out ramblings in which my meaning-making takes a rest and instead, and with great exaltation, I surrender to how you-all ‘fess-up and down and around and nonetheless always with a wry wit in it … it’s bright and echoes the numinous in-us, the euphoric-eunoia, the bright language of connecting with each other, an authentic friending experienced in a lightening look… in intertextual-fugues, invertendo-innuendo’s or mirrorly by-the-book –

?¿ an eunoia-euphoria often expresses as the urge-to-merge — is that it then: eunoia-euphoria expressed in longing waves, swelling in each other as sister and brother…well, when you’ve engaged both sides of the brain, that’s eunoia-euphoria amongst scholars and minstrels alike …


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Serendipity: the happenstance of meaning — the happy dance of gleaning

sometimes meaning is an arbitrary thing we do to fill in our blank looks — nevertheless, the thing we do with words to make them wing on feathers dipped in tears and laughter, to mime the looks we give each other, and woo our reader into our serenade of serendipity with the happenstance-of-meaning gleaming from their eyes…

the happenstance-of-meaning is gleaning that we leak in language; A-lexi–thymia: Literally meaning “no words for emotions.” — there is Beauty in unfettered language — like Jazz, it becomes fluid and undulates meaning within the main components of the Poem —

the happenstance-of-meaning, foundlings of the great or small
the friction made from rubbing the heart ‘n mind together
the imagination aspires from the limits of syntactical-chains
binding us to the tunnel-visions of common sense:
this present imperfect tense

this present imperfect tense in the happenstance of meaning — there is Beauty in these fettered phrasings — as the tongue carries the forms-and-rituals of the word, sounds rolling as a tidal wash upon a wild-worn shore, tumbling, reaching forwards, then, where deep calls to deep, moving back-words for some more…

intertextual ironics <–> uber-lexical sonics — the happenstance of meaning is the happy dance of gleaning
Somehow, the level of meaning, intended and happenstance in a write, are co-dependent upon the level of the reader gleaning, i.e., their ‘comprehension’ their ‘wonderment’ and all of their ‘bad-education.’
it has become evident to me, that the ‘meaning’ envisioned by the Author will probably have been revisioned by the Reader. Hence the subjective like/dislike quality to the tale told. Engrams or HieroGlyphs branded in the brain via synaptic structures are inter-looped: there where you can gather more dendrites by adding new memories to old thus creating a modular set of precepts in the garnering of meaning. Musing further, to use Socrates validation, ‘seeming is often master of the reality’ and we therefore need to agree to terms for an agreed meaning to be garnered. To deter the ‘revisionist’ and march like ‘soldier lemmings’ off an agreed upon ledge, to ‘meanings’ fatal fall, to reasons fatal flaw … that it is co-dependent upon Language=Syntax (agreements of form) for connecting, while Poetry is the flow and rhythm of words, sound-scapes which create meaning from word-movement; reflecting is optional!! and yet we ‘disturb’ meaning by recreating Language in our own image according to these HieroGlyphic-synaptic modules we’ve garnered. Subjective intertextual ironics made of objective (echoing Nature) uber-lexical sonics become the happy dance of gleaning meaning.
Language is a bridge, connecting, but the bridge has a syntax you gotta’ pay to getta’cross what you wanna’ say; Poetry is the stream below, murmuring, reflecting many Suns; meandering modulated-sounds for each ‘n everyone!

In the phenomenology of Love coupled with the visceReality of joyousness which frissons up the spine, what remains is our own courage to change the world from inside out withoutta’ doubt, that lost Art of interior-design … it starts with wonder imbued in awe, unbound by the language of ‘reason’ nor by the fatal-skin we’re in, uncluttered with the pitter-patter of patterns promulgated by all of our bad education nor spoilt by the cliché of tribal-mediocrity!

Caput inter nubila condit.
She hides her head among the clouds.

intertextual fugues

The happenstance of meaning,
in a hodgepodge of words.
with inherent seeming allured.
One is Joy,
another addiction.
Like me,
like my
inflated sense
of word.
Flags waving,
look at me,
and my words
we are WRITEoUS!
We are what we
Write flowers
and streams
windy chimes.
Face facts,
Words escape
with cowardly
defenses like
so that whimsy
freedom are
split infinitives.
Similes with
adaptations of
Read liberated, inebriated;
fight the
oppressor, as
the maker of

           hear infinity in the conch of your ears hissing there
                        while liquid last eyes
                        see the numinous that’s moving-us
into an ephemeral shining at the back of the mind,
illuminating the limits of the fatal skin you’re-in —
dumb and
stare at forever!
      let’s be  this grinning
                  empty, drooling,
                        free of meaning, ghost-hunter of the eye…
nevermind worrying in soft murmurs,
let’s linger astutely,
then hardly at-all,
                then, nonetheless
           when it’s all but over,
         wrap it up
            in many Mansions
                    for LotusBlossomslaughter.

’til it’s
Xpanding negative-space


…from the eye

of a howling-pen,




after-words language-weeps

from the wounds that reason makes;


seeps from the wound of omission,

seeps from some super-scary-SaṃsKāra,

seeps from the whirl’d of tunneling-fear,

seeps from some gimme-gimballed duality,

the wound that is an imperfect rorriM:MirrorRorrim


where they’re trembling from the loss,

from their lessons upon the alter, from getting stoned, over and over again,

in the wailing rhythm of suffering;


innocent victims, like you and me,

lost between infinite-Love and “I’m not worthy,”


there, you know, just there where the stretchered edges in longings go,

where we all strive to Love, yet stray only to affection,

and falter lessor still, yes, there where we whimper in the clinging,

instead of weeping for the longing Dream,

there where were bursting at the seams

of what it all means…



where it’s dark and deep.cat3

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metamorphosis: a catabasis

— you see roots of light,
a congregating of stars
and spiral-wings glitter from your startling eyes —

you’re dancing between
time and space m a t t e r s,
while orbiting infinitely
in,    (sensually,)
where every round thing begins —

at the skin, along the falling curve,
heat rises in longing swells,
from the center of you,
a red-red beat out of ache —

cold night, you alone, annihilate…



– this-here’s what you’re not supposed to write like, according to some specifications of imagism manifestos — the cosmic-sonnet, the marrying of romanticism and a cynical wit — so, then this is about the 2nd Law of Thermodynamics, Q=MCdeltaT, entropy heat death, you-know, that creative-destructive edge, where Higgy dust manifests into first-light, when heat death first begins … hence it’s a cosmic-sonnatta in the octave of love over the spill into desperate-seperations, there, where red-red blood swells from the ache of longing, through the fatal-skin you’re-in, from the very first-born into the duality of actions, and it’s just another momento-mori story where you decide whether or not to die, you decide, somehow a choice between being and never-again, and there in the midst of agonizing worry is the Tuum-est in it, with a cynical iconoclastic wit in it — so the Heisenberg manifesto decides on the turn into a wave of creative-destruction, and you choose, ‘annihilate’

I likey you, you likey me, we likey likey, and make many more emo-grammatically :) ❤ — I likey you, you likey me, we likey likey, and make many more emo-grammatically :) ❤ — I likey you, you likey me, we likey likey, and make many more emo-grammatically :) ❤ — I likey you, you likey me, we likey likey, and make many more emo-grammatically :) ❤ — add-infineum ad-nausem or OM is where the heart is, and you are home to me… a homily

sorry, a ‘lil DADAism visited me just then, and again within the gathering of many reflections, where there are these shiny broken things, all over these windows on the infernal interweb social groups, on your, once again absent mind, where, in-kind, you’d marry that last bit with romanticism and a realistic cynical wit is in it to give it curry onto the next shiny broken bit … every ‘lil-bit helps you on to play trivial infinity games, like fingering musically these glass-beads, these crystalEyes’d percepts of wonder moving into awe, where your eyes are startled with the beauty of it all, these many reflections which reflect you, over-and-over again, as a Narciisist, absorbed into every eventual-annihilation, heat-death, of the HeisenbuRg duality etude view, the knew, and so de-demurely sweet Echo did too …

I likey you, you likey me, we’re sometimes likely-lucky, and then we all fall down… “I’m drawn to abstract expressionist art due to the manner it allows one to start from a position of freedom. The form shatters the template of narrative structure and re-imagines narrative from the monads of the imagination that remain, as well as, leaving room for the constellation of new forms within the broken places of the image.” — PR

the Enneagram of the White Brotherhood, they’re racially blind, socially charmed in how they’d tremolo with a deep calling to deep lone-longing call, yet they’re really-really kind, in a sweet sort-of way, in how they’d let you play as a one-of-a-kind, with a more then less turn of mind, in a hear-here, ‘NOW” and ‘again’ sort-of way, eh

my agenda can be looked upon like this, that kiss, you know that ‘kiss,’ to kiss the beloved with the same kiss the beloved kisses me, and in that kiss merge with each others mystery, oh, our hearts know this, love attracts love, is the secret of that kiss … you know that kiss, tastes like fresh apples, those fallen angels with their tentative attentive touch which we like so much — I likey you, you likey me, we’re sometimes likey-lucky, and then we all fall down…

sometimes the Poem is a prayer, sometimes the prayer, the plaint, is a diminutive echo of our deep calling for deep, our slippery sloped separation anxiety — sometimes it hurts being separated by such large chasms of time-and-space matters, riding toes-out nose-forward hands reaching toward, rolling the stone from that splendorous infinite-in, where all this did begin, you-know, that swim of epic proportions, diving with abandon, and splashing into frothy-waves on a far-and-distant shore, where a startled-eye Venus at once appears, a ‘feel’ for father, and in the tug back-words for some more, disappears as a ripple into a never ending never more.

sometimes, Feeling this is all I can do, and this ‘this’ is a catabasis romance, and yet a duality dirge too, an elegy of woe, and a place of exceptional Peace, where the quantum frequencies of bliss are released…


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